


see the river flowing

by meggiewrites



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Fabi is a Little Shit, Future Fic, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Married Characters, POV Outsider, Rekindling Friendships, Relationship Reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-13 01:38:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18022370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meggiewrites/pseuds/meggiewrites
Summary: Philipp Lahm, the chief executive of FC Bayern Munich, personally travels to Hamburg to scout a young new offensive midfield talent. He certainly expects having to deal with stubborn parents – but if you told him what expected him when he finally did call M. Müller, head of a children's foundation and father of said player, he would have likely dubbed you crazy.





	see the river flowing

**Author's Note:**

> So. I debated for a while if I should post this or not. I wrote it on my commute from and to work over the past few days. Initially it was supposed to be a chapter of [oh, your wild heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16686163) but then it ended up over 4000 words long and I realized it would actually fit perfectly in the third and likely last installment of the 'official' Fabiverse stories.
> 
> But then, I also realized it might be months, maybe years, until I even properly start writing that. And I'm excited about this _now_ – I can always decide what I want to do with it once I actually post said fic. For now, I hope you enjoy this not-so-little piece!
> 
> Unbeta'd, as per usual. An inofficial gift for Martha, E and Mavis, aka the best cheerleader squad one could hope for ♡

There is something about this kid.

He’s only turning eighteen this February, but he kicks a ball like he was born with it. But aside from his obvious, considerable, talent, there’s something else that’s bugging Philipp.

Fabian Müller has a familiarity to his style of play, to his loopy grin and bright eyes. It has tradition to liken young shooting stars to former talent; but that doesn’t explain why he can’t look at the boy that’s only a bit younger than his own daughter as if he’s seen him before.

It’s annoying how he can’t place his finger on it, no matter how long he ponders it.

No, Philipp can’t find this boy’s loose ends, but as it is, they still want him at Bayern.

Apparently, that is a dead end too, though. At least for now. He would definitely stay until summer, St. Pauli’s officials had informed him on the phone. The boy’s parents – his advisors – insisted that he’d finish school in Hamburg before transferring to a bigger club.

Which, Philipp had to admit begrudgingly, was fair enough, though would be easy to solve with private lessons; nevertheless he was a bit dumbfounded that, when he was already signed with a professional team, Fabian still had his parents listed as his advisors. Usually at that point, a professional had been hired. Special cases were, of course, instances where said parent had worked in football business before; as it is, the business card that he’s turning in his hand belongs to a certain M. Müller, head of a Hamburg-based children’s foundation with headquarters in quite a few of Germany’s bigger cities.

How does a glorified social worker fit into all of this?

Philipp sighs, and finally dials the number on his phone.

“Müller?” The voice is clear, a bit higher than he expected, but there’s a tiredness to it too that probably comes with being a parent with a regular office job.

“Herr Müller? This is Philipp Lahm.” He makes a short pause to give his name more impact. "I’m calling about your son Fabian."

For a few seconds, there’s only silence on the other side. Then, Müller sighs.

“Are you.”

It’s not a question. But nevertheless, there’s a bit of surprise in his words.

“I assume St. Pauli already informed you about our interest.”

Another pause. “They have. And they probably told you that my spouse and I don’t think it’s the right time yet.”

Oh. Philipp hadn’t expected him to be this blunt. Usually, parents got ridiculously excited when their teenage offspring got offered a big contract at a renowned club.

“I had hoped we would be able to discuss that in person before you fully dismiss our offer. In fact,” – he checks his phone – “I am in a coffeeshop two blocks away from your office right now.”

Herr Müller sighs again, but Philipp is sure he imagined the muttered ’of course you are’. After another silence, Fabian’s father clears his throat.

“Alright. I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes, but after that I’m free. If you’re ready to wait for that long, I’m ready to talk.”

Philipp smiles. “Herr Müller, I’ve travelled all the way up from Munich. I’m ready to wait however long you need.”

 

M. Müller is a giant. Sure, his son is already quite tall, so Philipp didn’t expect someone he could physically be eye to eye with, but he’s sure this man would tower over his son by a good few centimeters.

But where Fabian resembles a lanky beanpole, his father is all broad muscle and has the stature of a nightclub bouncer. His rounded cheeks, messy, dark blonde hair and softer stomach distract from the overall imposing figure of the man, but behind a pair of black wire-frame glasses, a pair of steel blue eyes cut right through him.

Philipp has to tilt his head to look up at him, and by the way the man is smirking, he fears that this won’t be as easy as he thought.

Strangely, the guy looks almost a bit confused when he offers him his hand.

The introductions are fairly awkward, as is it when Herr Müller had to squeeze himself behind the small table Philipp had chosen strategically because it hides them away from the public eye.

Once they’re finally settled, he leans forward.

“Herr Müller, is there anything I can do to convince you and your wife that Fabian would be a great fit for Bayern?”

His conversation partner rubs his forehead. “My _husband_ and I know that very well. We just want him to finish his education in peace. We hoped you might consider signing him next summer instead.”

It’s a reasonable offer, Philipp knows, especially from the Müllers’ perspective. Already the fact that Fabian apparently has two fathers … it’s a perfect story for the media that would be much more likely to reach the public at a big club like Bayern, and could provoke a shitstorm that could well enough distract a young boy from his studies and put him under additional pressure.

But as far as Bayern’s point of view …

“We could really use the reinforcement now, though.”

Müller Sr. taps his fingers on the table.

“I’m well aware. But when you consider how important of a part he already plays at Pauli, you should probably consider their position as well. During summer they will have enough time to search for a backup; they knew he was gonna leave in the not so far future, he has too much talent to stay with a second division side for long, but this is just too soon.”

He leans back, “So even if you could convince me …”

His body language makes it abundantly clear that he is not about to be convinced either way.

Philipp hasn’t deemed him capable of making such an acute assessment, but there is a glint in his eyes that tell him that Herr Müller knows a great deal more about the football circus than his background might make people believe.

So, he figures it’s best to keep his questions blunt.

“Does he have any other offers that you want to look into?”

Herr Müller shakes his head. “It has always been Fabi’s dream to play for Bayern. My husband and I always supported him in it, too. We even have family there.”

Philipp allows himself a dry, hopeful smile. “Next summer, then? I’ll see to see if I can get people to work on an outline for a contract.”

He reaches out to shake his hand again, and this time the handshake is firmer, and Philipp realizes how much strength there lies hidden underneath Herr Müller’s oversized knitted sweater.

They part in good agreement, and when Philipp is ready get into his rental car, his conversation partner stops him quickly by putting a hand on his shoulder.

“You just need to know – if you sign Fabi, it’s not only _his_ history you’ll have to deal with eventually.”

They are cryptic words, and only now, with the business side out of the way, does Philipp realize that he bears the same underlying familiarity that his son carries, one that is maybe even stronger than that.

They exchange numbers, and it’s only when he’s made a few turns already that he steps on the breaks and comes to an abrupt halt with screeching tires.

Suddenly, it makes sense that this talent’s father with a Westphalian accent seems to know as much about the ins and outs of the business as himself. Suddenly, he remembers where he’s seen those eyes before.

Suddenly, he realizes that they have not only met before, but that they had once been colleagues. Teammates.

Friends.

“Oh, that fucker.”

He only moves the car again when the person behind him honks aggravatedly, navigating it into a narrow parking slot before pressing his fists against his eyes.

Manuel fucking Neuer.

No, Müller. Müller?

He finds himself considering the kid’s style of play, his lopsided toothy grin. _Müller_.

As quickly as he can, Philipp fishes his phone out of his pocket. He drums his finger on the dashboard while it rings. The car smells like something acidic, a heavy cleaning fluid probably.

“Müller?”

“MANUEL FUCKING NEUER,” Philipp roars.

“Ah,” Manuel breathes, “you figured it out.”

Philipp snorts. “Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. What were you THINKING?!”

Manuel laughs awkwardly. “That maybe you should consider having your eyes tested? I know I look different enough from back then so that people on the street don’t recognize me, but we’ve played together for almost a decade.”

“Oh I see, nothing has changed then, you’re still an asshole.”

He can almost see Manuel grinning, that’s how vividly he can picture it.

“And you’re still as tiny.”

Philipp clenches his fist. “I’ll come beat you up, Neuer.”

Manuel coughs. Philipp thinks there was a giggle somewhere in there, but he might have just imagined it.

“It’s Müller now, actually. I would never use a fake name on my business card.”

And ah yes, there’s the other can of worms they’re about to open.

“He is Thomas’ kid, isn’t he,” He says, in an almost resigned way.

“Um. Yeah.” He hears Manuel scratching his head. “He’s ... ours. Mine _and_ Thomas’, I mean.”

Philipp rubs his hands over his face. “Jesus. What on Earth did I miss?!”

Another awkward chuckle. “In my defence, I haven’t seen you in years.”

Philipp raises his eyebrows. “Oh? And you mean that gives to the excuse to not tell ME, your CAPTAIN, about the fact that you and Thomas have been probably hooking up UNDER MY NOSE?!”

Manuel stays stubbornly quiet.

“Well? Did you?!”

“Um, yeah. We became a couple in 2016. Sorry.”

Philipp is ready to bang his head against the dashboard.

“And how do you have a kid? How’s that even possible?!”

“Ah, yeah. As it turns out you _are_ actually allowed to captain a national team only four months after giving birth, who knew.”

“YOU DID WHAT NOW?!”

Philipp never knew that you could feel anger and confusion at the same time, but in that moment, he does. Not anger because Manuel was quite apparently not straight and, despite how it should be impossible (he’s seen his medical file), A2-positive, but because him and Thomas kept this all from him.

For _two decades._

He huffs, can feel the steam coming out of his nostrils.

Manuel knows it’s best to have him cool down for a bit, so he stays dutifully quiet. ’Good for him,’ Philipp thinks, still fuming.

After a few minutes, Manuel clears his throat.

“Fips? You still there?”

Another snort. “Sure.”

“Could I maybe convince you to join me and my family for dinner? Thomas will only come home around eight, but Fabi and I would welcome the company.”

It’s strange, imagining them as a family. Thomas and Manuel as a couple. Lovers who greet each other with kisses and have raised a son together. It’s hard for Philipp to wrap his mind around. Nevertheless, he sighs.

“Sure. I’d love to.”

 

The Müllers’ house in Blankenese is beautiful. Not too big, not too extravagant, but befitting of someone of their status nevertheless.

Manuel greets him barefooted and with a crooked grin.

“Hi again.”

Immediately, Philipp wonders how he ever could have not recognized him. Sure, he’s wearing glasses now, his hair is longer, messier. He looks softer, but it’s still abundantly clear that he’s a very strong man.

He looks so much like the Manuel he knew that the nostalgia seeing him evokes is almost painful. They share a hug, and immediately, they’re transported back to a time where Philipp raising on his tiptoes, Manuel leaning down was something they did every day.

“How have you been?” Manuel asks, and it’s so different from the conversation they had not even three hours ago that it’s almost unbelievable that it was conducted by the same people.

Something behind Manuel rumbles as he lets Philipp in, and his friend turns around, waving someone over.

Up close, it’s easy to tell how alike Manuel and his son look. They have the same facial structure, the same nose, the same chin – but then there’s also the nest of dark blonde curls on his head that are in colour all Manuel but scream Thomas in structure. There’s his lanky build, the way his body is so starkly different to Manuel’s, the way his eyes are mismatched but as bright as Manuel’s, still.

Genetics are a weird thing, Philipp thinks, because this teenager is in fact the perfect blend of his two friends.

It’s Fabian who extends his hand first.

“Herr Lahm. We haven’t had the pleasure, I’m Fabian. I usually go by Fabi, though.”

It’s strange to hear his voice, his accent that’s so clearly North German, knowing he’s the son of a Bavarian and a Westphalian. But there is some of Manuel’s carefulness in his eyes and some of Thomas’ cheek in the way his lips curl into a smile.

“Call me Philipp.”

They shake hands. Fabian’s grip is strong for a seventeen-year-old.

“My parents told me a lot of stories about you.” He sounds almost amused.

Philipp raises an eyebrow at Manuel, who’s grinning bashfully. “Did they? Well, believe it or not, they never told me about you.”

Fabian only shrugs. “Yeah, I suspected as much. Almost none of their old colleagues know. Too much of a risk, Paps says.”

Manuel huffs, but instead of protesting, he just gently leads them down the hallway. “Come.” He’s still in the process of cooking, going back to chopping onions the second Fabian and Philipp join him in the spacious, bright kitchen that overlooks the river and the ships passing by.

Philipp clears his throat. “Smells great.”

Manuel cracks a grin. “Yeah? Thought I’d try something new for the occasion.”

Fabian cackles. “I just hope it doesn’t end up like that one time you tried to make coq au vin.”

Manuel scoffs. “That was your dad’s fault and you know it.” He turns to Philipp. “Thomas really shouldn’t be allowed in any kitchen.”

That teases a snort out of Philipp. “No, probably not.”

He can’t help but notice how soft Manuel’s expression gets at the mention of his … yeah, his husband. And with a ring on his finger and a smile on his face Philipp realizes that despite being changed completely in lifestyle, name and even appearance, Manuel seems – happy.

He also realizes that this secret little family they have built is why they’ve hardly been in contact these past few years, or why Thomas had gotten so closed all of a sudden when he’d asked him about his love life a few months back when they reunited some press event or another.

In the end, they’ve done it all for Fabian.

Said teenager is snooping around in the pans, sneaking bites of food every now and then like Philipp can perfectly imagine Thomas doing too, until Manu taxes him with a frown and shoos him out of the kitchen.

“Go set the table, alright? For your dad too, he will join us later.”

Fabian rolls his eyes but then jumps down from the counter, disappearing into the living room.

“He’s a cute kid.”

Manuel snorts. “He’s a pain in the ass, just like his father. But I adore him to bits. Them both.”

“You look happy,” Philipp assesses.

Manuel shrugs. “I don’t think I’ve ever been happier, really. Coming to Hamburg was only a solution at first, a way to keep us and Fabi away from the watchful eyes of media and the public, but I’ve grown to love it here.”

He sighs. “It’s daunting, the thought of returning to Munich. I still love the city, our lake house ... we visit every summer, did you know? Visiting Fabi’s grandparents and spending a few weeks there.” His lips twist into a smile. “Actually, it’s surprising you never run into us. After all, we’re almost neighbours.”

Philipp did, in fact, ran into Manuel in Tegernsee quite a few times shortly after they’d retired, but hasn’t for a good eight to nine years – actually, he’d ran into Thomas on his usual dog walking route only a few summers back though. The younger had never told him what he was doing there, but now that made sense, too.

But no, what Manuel meant that was that it was surprising that he’d never run into them as a family.  
  
The former goalie sighs again, rubbing his forehead. He’s not wearing his bracelet anymore, Philipp notices; the one he never took off during the latter half of his career.

“But I just worry, you know. What if someone will see Fabi and realize he looks like me or Thomas. What if someone sees us together? What will happen to his career when our story gets dig up?”

Oh. So that was the ’history’ Philipp, as the chief executive of Bayern, would have to deal with eventually. It’s a daunting prospect, especially if –

“Did the club know?” Manuel tilts his head at the question. “That you had a kid, you and Thomas,” Philipp clarifies.

Manuel snorts. “Of course they knew. But it was all kept very hush hush – I’m not surprised they got rid of all the obvious evidence as soon as we were gone. And by now, I assume no one is left working there anymore who knew back then.”

“Who did you tell?”

“Apart from Kalle, Uli and the medical staff? Hasan and Kathleen, of course. Josh. Toni and Sven. Mats, David and Robert. And everyone from the 2018 World Cup squad knows, of course, seeing as I brought Fabi to training camp.”

A disbelieving cackle escapes Philipp’s lips. “You did what?”

Manuel shrugs with a lazy grin. “He was four months old. I didn’t want to leave him alone for that long. Not when I’d expected – when I’d hoped – that we would stay in Russia for longer than three weeks.”

“What did Jogi say?”

“Oh, he was very much not amused. But he’d already publicly promised me a spot if I did well in training, so he couldn’t exactly send me home.”

They share a grin, and suddenly it feels like back then, back when they were captain and vice captain and Thomas constantly talking a few meters away, the players making their rounds.

Philipp helps him carry the heavy dishes filled with delicious fresh food into the living room where Fabian is sitting at the dining table with his knees drawn to his chest, twiddling with his phone but letting it slip into his pocket the moment he sees the two adults enter.

“Not during meals, Krümel,” Manuel sighs, and Fabian pouts but mumbles a quiet “sorry, Paps” under his breath. He's wearing the bracelet that Philipp noticed was a missing presence on his father's wrist.

The teenager doesn’t catch the soft smile Manuel directs at him, but Philipp does.

They eat in silence for a while, but then Philipp gets himself together and remembers why he came to Hamburg in the first place.

“So, Fabi. How do you like it at St. Pauli?” And as soon as Fabian gets talking, Philipp knows that he is very much Thomas Müller’s son.

 

An hour later, they still sit at the table, exchanging stories. As the youngest and the most adventurous, Fabian is the one who has the most to tell, clearly not at all flustered by having a footballing legend at their dinner table (to be fair, he’s used to sharing a meal with two of them every day), but Philipp and Manuel find there has been quite a lot of each other’s life that they missed out on.

Philipp is just recounting the story of his daughter’s first day at high school when they hear the front door being unlocked, someone shuffling around, kicking off their shoes.

“Manu?! Do we have a visitor or who do those tiny shoes belong to?”

Thomas’ voice rings loudly through the hallway and he sounds like he always has. Maybe a bit raspier, but just as obnoxious, just as familiar as always.

Manuel giggles and buries his face in his hands.

“Shit. Can you believe that in all the excitement I totally forgot to text him?”

Fabian facepalms and Philipp snorts just in time before Thomas stumbles into the room.

He almost trips over the lengthy scarf wrapped around his neck, mouth hanging open like a gaping goldfish when he recognizes who it is that is sitting at their dinner table. Then, his lips spread into a wide grin.

“Well well Capitano, I certainly wasn’t expecting you of all people.” He leans down for a quick hug that is as firm as it always was as his smile spreads only wider. “Hello Phil, how are you?”

Philipp huffs. “Well, quite a lot better now that I’ve learned from your _husband_ that you two have been an item for twenty years.”

Of course, Thomas doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. Instead, he just waves him off.

“Ah, that old lament! I’m sure you understand.” Then, he pats Philipp on the back before moving over to ruffling Fabian’s hair who responds with an indignant “hey!” before reaching the last person at the table and leaning down again.

He steals one, two kisses from Manuel’s lips, and it looks oddly alien and natural at the same time.

For a second, Philipp observes them get lost in each other's smiles before Thomas groans, collapsing on the last chair. His tie is wrinkled, and his salt-and-pepper hair, that only contains hints of its original mousy brown colour by now, is even messier than usual.

“God, what a day. Thanks for making dinner, _Schatz_ , I’m starving.”

Manuel nods and takes his hand, and Thomas immediately, instinctively threads their fingers together.

It’s curious, Philipp decides, to see them operate as a couple instead of friends. It’s glaringly obvious that they’ve been together a long time by the gentleness of their touches, the fond looks, but it’s such a stark difference to his vice- and third captain who’d tease each other mercilessly until someone (usually Manuel) gave in with a sigh.

Thomas demolishes his plate in record time – it’s truly a miracle his still as thin as a rail – patting his flat stomach happily once he’s done.

Then, he leans forward, crossing his arms on the table.

“So. You’re here for Fabi’s transfer?”

Philipp sighs. “Originally, yes. But then I learned that Manuel is well, Manuel, and if I’m being entirely honest, I’m not even sure what I’m doing here right now.”

A smile curls at Thomas’ lips. “Why Philipp, you’re having dinner with friends. What else would you be doing?”

It’s enough to make Manuel chuckle, and Philipp cackle. God, Thomas. Twenty-five years since he first met him, and he hasn’t changed at all.

 

In the end, he stays for three hours more, until the moon lights up the river with its pale fingers, interrupted only by the big container ships passing by every couple minutes even at this hour of the day.

At first, Manuel wants to insist that he stays and occupies their guest bedroom, and only after Philipp politely declined three times and Thomas puts a firm hand on his husband’s shoulder, kneading it until Manu sends him a soft but slightly irritated look, that he lets it go.

They didn’t talk about Fabian much more at all; instead, they’d regaled in their old, shared memories, making the boy look wide-eyed with wonder with all the stories Philipp had to tell about his parents; some that they had been embarrassed about, some they’ve even forgotten about themselves.

Manuel had groaned when Thomas and Philipp had reminded him of how he got blackout drunk when they won the triple, letting his head drop on the table until Thomas had massaged his neck and leaned down to press a few gentle kisses there, making Fabian roll his eyes and ask if he could be excused to his room. He had school the next morning, and Thomas assured Philipp that he wouldn’t delay going to bed – he knew he had to be fit for training in the afternoon.

Then, it had just been the three of them, and suddenly everything had fallen quiet and they realized that things weren’t as they have been before.

They’ve grown old and grey, with laughter lines by their eyes and frown lines between their eyebrows, with marks and nicks and quirks –

But in the end, they had once been the golden trio.

And as Philipp bids them goodbye after making them vow that they will visit the next time they come to Bayern, he realizes that as far as Fabian Müller goes, him and his team will never have anything to worry about.

At the gate, he turns around again, watching is friends stand in the doorway, side by side, holding hands pressed in between their bodies. They fit together, he realizes, like oddly shaped puzzle pieces that if you look at them separately, you’d never guess that they go together. But then they do, and even if you try to take them apart again, they won’t. It’s strange how quickly he got used to the thought.

Philipp raises his hand in goodbye, and he smiles when they wave back – Manuel almost shyly, with one of his half-smiles that Philipp is sure makes Thomas’ heart melt every time he looks at him, and Thomas over-enthusiastically, almost knocking over a potted plant to his left – and in that moment, he knows.

Somehow, someday, they will return to Bayern.

And as far as their son goes – well, it’s in his blood. Isn’t it?

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to learn more about Fabian and the Fabiverse, I suggest you check out my [tag](http://manuelmueller.tumblr.com/tagged/fabiverse) for it on tumblr! It's ... one of the main things I'm blogging about atm, and there's art, edits, headcanons, backgrounds ...
> 
> I write FICTION about real people. None of this is intended to harm them or their reputation in any way. Please leave kudos and maybe a comment if you liked it! | [tumblr](http://manuelmueller.tumblr.com/)


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